Mirror Images
by Endles
Summary: A peek into the relationship of England and America, from the time of the independence war to modern era. How they both long for each other, but neither wants to admit it.


**Mirror Images**

-x-

England stands in front of a large mirror, unmoving and expressionless, just staring at the cracked reflection.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?"

And what he sees from the mirror is not his image, but a small child whose hair is the purest gold and whose eyes are the clearest blue, like the sky.

"Definitely not me."

Suddenly there are hands in front of his eyes, blocking his view, making it unable to see the mirror anymore.

"You shouldn't look at the world through a broken glass."

A raspy voice says, a voice he would recognise anywhere.

France.

"I feel as though my before half full glass has completely emptied."

He says, not bothering to lift his arms in the effort to push the man away. He feels so drained that he doubts he would even have the energy for that.

"Non, it has not…"

The French whispers into his ear, the breath tickling against his neck.

"…and even if it has, I shall pour it full again."

That snaps England wholly back into himself. He turns around and faces the man.

"You? You, who have lost so many precious friends yourself?"

France smiles.

"Oui, me."

England doesn't understand. He doesn't understand how the man finds the will to live and get hurt again and again, time after time.

"What ever keeps you going?"

The man leans in and kisses his cheek softly. Normally England would fight against it but now the touch feels comforting and he lets the man do as he wishes.

"Ah, je ne sais pas… but I have to be a masochist for doing so"

Another kiss, this time to the corner of his mouth.

England shudders as he whispers:

"Me too."

-x-

The next morning England lies awake in his bed and stares at the ceiling.

But his eyes do not see the dark wood above him, but instead rain and an angry youth dressed in blue.

"_I don't belong to you!"_

His lips quirk into a smile that is completely void of humour.

"I never said you did…"

He mutters to the ceiling.

"…I just wanted you to stay by my side"

"Likewise."

He turns, mildly surprised, to see the man on his right leaning on his elbows and staring back at him.

"…you were awake?"

France ignores his question and yawns.

"Mmh. You should treat others like you wish yourself to be treated."

He smiles softly at the English man who's glaring.

"Please, I do know the Ten Commandments, still…"

France doesn't have the time to point out that it isn't in the Ten Commandments, before England continues.

"Don't you feel like God has abandoned us?"

France throws him an incredulous look.

"Are you comparing America, of all people, to God?"

England almost laughs despite how miserable he's feeling and almost misses the words muttered in continuation.

"Besides, you still have Matthieu…"

His expression returns to its usual seriousness.

"Your bitterness is showing. And besides, he's going to leave me too, eventually."

There's some ironical mirth in the French man's voice when he speaks again.

"Je suis très désolé."

England scoffs.

"Don't sound so happy while apologising."

France presses a finger on his lips and quiets him.

"Mon ami, the world is slowly, but surely changing."

He explains, sounding sure of himself, and England listens.

"The time of colonies is going to end someday, and all nations will stand by themselves, proud and independent."

There is a moment of silence before the man removes his finger from England's mouth.

"Maybe you're right."

He smirks.

"I am always right."

England lets out a sarcastic chuckle.

"Hardly."

France looks oddly happy, causing England to throw him a questioning look.

"…I'm just glad that you're retorting back again."

The Brit looks intrigued as he asks:

"It proves that I'm returning to my old self?"

"Oui."

His expression is a mixture of pity, surprise and amusement.

"You really are a masochist… Tea?"

He states, getting up from the bed and picking out a random pair of trousers from the floor. Luckily they are his.

"Oui, merci."

He walks out of the room and into the kitchen. The French man follows him after a while, fully dressed.

"I'm not going to bother cooking anything. You'd just insult me and wouldn't eat it."

France smirks and takes a seat from around the table.

"I am grateful for that."

England pauses for a moment to look at him.

"Someday I am going to poison your wine."

He says and returns to the whistling kettle.

"Thank you for informing me beforehand."

The man says and offers his cup for the English man who pours hot water into it.

"Hmh. You're not welcome."

They sit around the table in a content silence both sipping from their cups, before France asks.

"What are you going to do after now?"

England places his teacup on the table.

"Continue solving the mess from the war, have a long talk with my remaining kids and cry myself to sleep."

His voice is serious.

"Are you going to be all right?"

Concern is creeping into France's voice and England smiles—truly smiles for the first time in a long time.

"Yeah…"

France looks appeased.

"I'm going then, merci pour le thé. Give me a call if you need me"

England retorts back, not weakly, but with the same strength he used to have:

"Like I'd ever need you."

France wants to hide how happy the voice of the others makes him. He turns around and smiles so that the other can't see.

"So you say, mon amour… Au revoir"

Behind his back, England smiles too.

"May you be hit by a car. Or better yet, a train."

France laughs.

"Je t'aime."

-x-

"…um."

France is stopped by the small sound. He turns around and sees Canada standing by the doorway he just passed, looking as timid as ever. He smiles, pleased to see the boy.

"Ah, Matthieu! Mon petit, when did you arrive?"

He looks a little offended.

"J'ai été ici tout le temps."

France continues to smile and decides that next time he comes over he'll have to check more carefully who' present.

"Bien sûr. Well, have been listening to us then?

Hopefully he hasn't heard anything, it would be quite embarrassing.

"Non! I've been sleeping, mostly..."

His smile falls off, and is replaced by a concerned look.

"You must be tired after everything that has happened."

Canada looks frantic, helpless.

"Not as tired as England."

He starts speaking, the worry in his voice growing with each spoken word.

"Il ne dor pas… he just stands there, staring into the mirror. He doesn't move, doesn't react, doesn't even notice when people enter the room… it's like he's not even living anymore!"

France listens to the boy who is quickly bringing himself near panic, until he can't take it anymore.

His own heart would break.

He crushes the boy into a tight embrace, efficiently stopping his rambling.

"Eh? Francis?"

"Shh, mon petit Canadien… it's all right"

The man whispers sweet nothings into the boy's ear, gently petting his back.

And the boy weeps against his shoulder, crying away the pain.

"…it's all right."

-x-

12 months later France walks on a beautiful drive, shadowed by green leaved trees. He gets to the door of a grand mansion and knocks on the door, once, twice.

An energetic looking blond boy with shining new glasses opens the door.

"France! Yo! What's up? What brings you here?"

France smiles and lets himself in, brushing past the youth who closes the door behind him.

"Bonjour, America. I came to congratulate you on your birthday."

He offers a single yellow rose to him and the man takes it, carefully, not to hurt his fingers on the thorns.

"Ha ha, thanks! You want something to drink, coffee? Coke?"

America laughs, the sound short and brilliant, tingling like a thousand bells. It stops France's thoughts and for a moment he can see what England sees in the boy. Then he brushes the thought off.

"Non, merci."

He politely declines the offer, but follows America who is heading for the kitchen.

"Well, I'm gonna have some."

The man, no, boy informs and pours some of the black liquid from the coffeepot in to his mug. Then he leads the way to the garden and they sit on a bench under a great oak tree, enjoying the summer breeze.

Until France breaks the silence.

"You haven't heard anything from England, n'est-ce pas?"

America's lips turn downwards.

"Besides official letters and stuff? Nope, nothing"

France sighs, he doesn't mention it, but the boy clearly hasn't even been trying to get in contact.

"And you do realise he won't be coming to your big, fancy party?"

His expression remains sour, lips in a frown, eyes empty of all emotions.

"I didn't invite him…"

He mutters quietly.

"He'd just ruin my party."

The older man watches interested, an almost pitying look on his face.

"I see… well, he's all alone then."

"Yeah."

The reply is short, indifferent. France tries again.

"He's taking it quite hard, saviez-vous?"

"I know."

Still the same. His brows burrow as he watches how the youth's hair gets caught by the wind.

"Maybe you too should get over this cold bitterness…"

He tells the boy matter-of-factly as he gets up, preparing to leave.

"Pay him a visit someday."

He says as a goodbye, walking away without looking back, leaving America to sit alone and grip his mug so hard it almost breaks.

"Someday…"

He whispers to the wind.

"But not someday soon."

-x-

Many years go by, many lonely years for England and America.

Until, one day England is reading in his study when he hears the familiar twinkling from around him.

"_England, England!"_

There are his two little guards, the two fairy sisters who have taken as their task to watch over England's property.

"Hm, what is it? Is something the matter?"

He asks, smiling a little.

"_A fairly odd dweller, dressed in leather, walks right past our lands."_

The older of the sisters, Felicity spoke with a worried voice.

The words surprise England, so he gets up and walks to the window.

"What? Who on earth could that…"

There he stops dead.

"_England, England!"_

Bree is going to fly to England's side, but she is stopped by the other tiny girl.

"_Leave him be, sister Bree… We'll be better off"_

The fairies leave and England is alone again, staring out of the window.

"_America…"_

-x-

America stands by the door and knocks. Nobody opens the door, but he can hear a shout from somewhere above him.

"What business have you here?"

He looks up to see England looking down at him from a second floor window.

"I came to see you! Do I need a reason for that?"

He yells back, trying to look as hurt and innocent as he can.

"Well, it's rather unusual for you!"

It doesn't work, England knows him better.

"Whatever. Let me in, will ya?"

There is silence from the older man's part. Then he asks.

"…will you break the door if I don't?"

America considers it for a moment.

"Yeah, I might."

England sighs and leaves the window.

"It's unlocked."

He walks downstairs in time to see the man close the heavy wooden door behind him.

"Do you want something?"

He asks, stepping down the last stairs and turning towards the kitchen.

"Tea?"

From looking over his shoulder he can see something soften in the American's expression.

"Sure, tea would be nice."

England shrugs off the odd feeling caused by those words, too gentle coming from America's mouth. He walks in to the kitchen, fills the kettle and places it on the stove, at the same time thinking furiously.

"_What does he want from me?"_

When it's ready he takes two cups and walks back to the entry hall, only to find America missing. He glances left and right wondering where the man might have gone, when he hears something crash in the drawing room.

He finds him there, standing by the drawer and on the floor by his feet lays a broken photo frame.

"How nice of you."

England walks past the unmoving boy and places the two cups on the sofa table.

"Please don't break anything else while I'll go and fetch the dustpan."

He tries to walk past America again, but finds himself being held back by a hand holding his wrist securely.

He's about to order the American to let go, when he hears the words he least expects from him.

"England, I'm sorry."

And he knows that America doesn't mean the broken frame.

"For everything."

He turns around to face England, his eyes filled with sincerity.

That look is enough to almost break England.

"Of all the…"

Tears are forming in his eyes, falling freely to his cheeks and along his jaw.

"I'm sorry."

America repeats and steps forward.

England doesn't say anything. He finds himself unable to, as he watches the man lean down, their noses brushing and finally, the man's lips descending on his own.

Finally.

Finally.

Finally.

-x-

Kisses along his jaw line. Just feather light touches, each of them dragging him deeper and deeper into the world of pleasure.

"_America."_

The kisses trail downwards, that mouth stopping to suck at his collarbone, drawing a low throaty moan out of him.

"_America."_

And then there are hands too.

Oh God, those hands, roaming around his upper body knowing just the right places to touch, to pinch, to brush… He's sure he'll melt into an unrecognisable puddle merely by these touches alone.

"_America."_

He repeats the word like some sort of a spell, saying it over and over again. With every touch, every kiss, every lick, it becomes less and less of a word and more and more of a plea, a hiss, a moan.

"_America."_

The man crawls back up to land a kiss on his lips.

England buries his face into America's neck and whispers one more time.

"_America."_

And as a response, no stronger than a breath against his hair but for him so meaningful, he gets back his own name.

"_England."_

Then there is no room left for speech anymore.

They become a mess of rhythmic thrusts, moans and cries of ecstasy and desperate lips seeking each other.

Both drowning in the feeling they have sought, waited, wanted for so long.

"_I love you."_

"_I love you."_

"_I love you too."_

-x-**  
**

**The End**

-x-

Good heavens, how the time flies. It's already been over three years since I wrote this fic and I decided that I should finally fix all the mistakes in it. I didn't touch the actual writing all that much, because I wanted to keep it close to the original. Someday I can look back on this fic and see how much I've improved. It already makes me cringe, so I wonder how I'll react then…

**Intentional historical inaccuracies:** Coke wasn't invented by the time America offers it to France, and that cars were only heard of some hundred years after the time when England hopes that France will get hit by one.


End file.
